


Musings of the Queen

by janjanfollower



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Vignette, spoilers up to most recent episode; i have a problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:39:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7239457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janjanfollower/pseuds/janjanfollower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of vignettes, largely written on my phone, about the Raven Queen, her domain, and her perspective on Vox Machina. Each piece typically won't exceed 600 words, and this will be updated as I write more related pieces and continue loving the story about the gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They are... _Uncommon_.

It is a time of peace, so the only people she watches are those who have presented themselves, and usually did so long ago. The mortals are scared of death, and she can accept these times. Those that pass on do without prologue. These are the things she does.

The fate-touched, the mortals with unshining light radiating against the tapestry of life, pokes of stars against the sheet of night, are always seen and always not. There is no deity that ignores them, for their ripples last millennia. From the first they still see where the waters were once undisturbed, timelines of millions of lives seen as the whole instead of parts. There is no fate-touched man that goes forgotten.

When the mortals present themselves to you, they emerge from the blackness, offering their lives. When the fate-touched present themselves to you, they are lights brought to your presence, supernovae pledging allegiance. It is a grace of fate, no other being or force grander than the chance that gave the backbone to the tapestry.

The half-elf is bowing, knees on floor and tears on face, wrestling against the binding of fate to free himself from her approaching hand. There is a poison on his blade and on his tongue, venom spitting from his words as he swears against her cocked head. Her last was a ranger who proved devotion strong and true. She gave him a boon, and he battled heartily. He knees, and though his ignorance is clear in the hate in his eyes, even a queen does not ignore boons from fate.

He is angered, but loyal. She has seen crooks and thieves who bear his skin, but none of the skin carry souls of purity. There is a longing in his core that wants a goodness, a wholeness of light and benevolence. Pelor would have loved to hold his heart, as would Tiamat. The sharpest two blades against the line of purity and corruption, neither of whom strike her interest. His heart wants worthiness, and what she's concern about, he is not willing to get it under any circumstances: he wants it only fairly and truly.

There have been few times where she has seen her priests explain her grants. When she was mortal, perhaps millennia ago when the first fate-touched walked the earth, the gods of the old age never devoted her heart. She speaks plainly, in blunt instruments and slag edges. She is not the one to charm nor impress. She does what she is to do.

He reverberates, however. She is not speaking to stone, not to men who see their narrow path and choose to refuse. Not to the man who tried to remove her watch from the half-elf, Vax'ildan she realises and remembers simultaneously. He is willing to understand, to see between the strands of life and watch the picture produce itself against millions.

He chooses to follow her path, turn from roguish skill and to her domain, even if he is only taking small, cautionary steps. From her eternal plane, a shadowed sphere with a golden tapestry, ever rippling and expanding as the souls of the newly-dead circle her like organza in fluid, she watches Vax'ildan stare her down, not with contempt nor daring, but with confusion slowly blossoming into epiphany.

She smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was first shared over twitter! Here's the link: https://twitter.com/Derpados/status/738638240996052992


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally written over Skype; it's been lightly edited for formatting to be suitable on ao3, and I decided to leave it all in lowercase for aesthetic reasons. fite me

i cant stop thinking abt the raven's chamber, and how the raven queen sounds like a benefactor to her champion, a king to her highest knight, but to percy she speaks as mob boss, offering her skills to her questioner, her customer for a certain price.

where she speaks with a silken voice, a glide to her emotionless vocal afflictions; not a gold tongue, a mouth of a bard, nor of a snake who slides between teeth to avert catch. her words are murky, grey, food coloring falling undisturbed in water. but to see through it is a nightsky of diamonds seperating light into rainbows, techicolor snowing across the floor.

her priests are mourning mothers, silent in their eternal funeral. under the masks, they smile, are children of twenty winters and have seen the end of the third spark. they see their lives, and do not fear death. they are soldiers and scribes of the lady's cloud of words.

for even the god of death does not fear life. even the god of death and fate knows the value of wine and song and sex.

she does not wish for the souls to consume, corrupt, implode in her belly, their might making your muscles. she wishes not for the power, the twitching force of millions of millions of millions. she wishes for the death to see their contract completed. she cares not for the words, nor for the contractee. she wants to see only they end when they are meant to.

and if the fate-touched can harvest her contracts, then it will not be done unrepaid. the lady keeps her word, whether through her force or material blade.

she does not barter with lives. she does not barter with the things that have crossed her. she does not flirt with the hells, or with elysium. what lies not in her domain lies not to be her problem.

but for the people who work for her, they are not done only out of the goodness of their heart. they are not forgotten and though the lady does not hold grudges, the lady is not impartial.

and she does this because the lady knows the value of work and loyalty. the lady once had blood run through her whole skin, not her lungs. her hair once was of keratin, her bones laid rigid against her muscle, taught and pink. she knows the worth of faith, ever since she saw the old god consume the souls of the eternal, drunk on millions of years

the lady does not forget. the lady watches her tapestry ever-expand and swell, the dead laying their lives through eternity overlapping and ebbing against the actions of their ancestors, past and future as identical as 2 and ii.

and the lady watches. and the lady watches.


End file.
